


The Day in the Palm of Our Hands

by tabaqui



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU that begins right after the end of <i>Jus en Bello</i>.  Victor can't shake the world Sam and Dean live in, so he turns to them for Hunting 101.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day in the Palm of Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Spn_reversebang](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) challenge. Based on [art by chaosraven](http://chaosraven.dreamwidth.org/24893.html). Title is a from the Billy Joel song 'Goodbye, Saigon'. Originally posted in November of 2011.

 

 

It's a month before they hear from him. Sam has to do laundry for the next four times, because he lost the bet; he said Henriksen would make himself forget all about them. Dean said no way.  
  
"Dean Winchester, that you?" The voice is oh-so-familiar and also tied into some fairly freaky memories, so Dean kind of freezes.  
  
"Uh, maybe?"  
  
"Jesus, man, how in hell did you elude me for so long?"  
  
" _Henriksen_?" Sam's head snaps up like a hound dog that just got the scent and Dean points at him, grinning. "How are you, man? Wait...you're not using some kind of global tracking device to triangulate the cell phone signal so you can ambush us, are you? I saw it on _CSI: Miami_."  
  
There's a moment of silence on the other end. "We don't...uh. No. No, actually, I'm calling 'cause I...need a favor."  
  
" _You_ need a favor from _us_." Sam is all but doing semaphore with his eyebrows and Dean happily ignores him, kicking back on the rumpled bed and shoving a pillow under his head. "Well, that's kind of...interesting, isn't it."  
  
"I thought we'd let bygones be bygones, man." Henriksen's voice is a little gravelly and a little staticky with bad connection, full of mock hurt, all low and warm, and it makes Dean's heart pound a little faster.  
  
Sam is shooting him a look that would curdle the milk _in_ the cow, and Dean rolls his eyes for Sam's benefit. "Ah, I'm just jackin' with ya. What'cha need, man?"  
  
"I'm on a case, out here in Louisiana. Chalmette, right south of New Orleans."  
  
"Yeah, I'm familiar with it." Dean sits up on the bed, serious now. Wondering if the whole screwed-up deal in Colorado has made Henriksen the next target in their little demon war. The mini pad of complimentary hotel scratch paper is right there and he picks it up – signals to Sam that he needs a pen. "So – what's the case?"  
  
"That's classified. But this isn't about that, it's...I think..."  
  
There's a long pause and Dean catches the pen Sam tosses him – makes a ' _what the fuck_ face at the phone. "You think...?"  
  
"I think there are...I mean, they don't...do you.... Are zombies real?"  
  
" _Zombies_?"  
  
They're not zombies, they're just meth-heads who live down in the muck and have mold growing on their clothes. But Dean gives Henricksen points for imagination.  
  
He also spends the next week writing up a ' _How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse_ ' manual that includes lots of gory drawings of screaming civilians running from zombie hordes. Sam says he's having _way_ too much fun with the gruesome details. Dean says Henriksen needs to know these things. He mails it to Henriksen's office in Quantico.  
  
For the next three days, his primary email is flooded with spam for Enzyte, colon cleansers, and Hair Club for Men.  
  
  
  
  
The next time Henriksen calls, in the middle of March, he's somewhere near the White Sands Missile Range. He's pretty sure he's found a nest of gremlins. Dean tells him he's been watching too much late-night free cable. Turns out, they're mutant armadillos who've nibbled on one too many rocket-fuel-drenched grubs.  
  
The desert has many secrets.  
  
Henriksen starts texting after that, asking questions and goading Dean into revealing all his hunter secrets. Dean hates texting, but he takes a secret delight in sending bizarre news snippets and autopsy photos to Victor at all times of the day. Victor gets really fast at texting ' _Fuck you_ '.  
  
But sometimes, late at night, when Sam is sleeping the sleep of the fairly-innocent, Dean laboriously types out texts about his deal, about the grinding fear of leaving Sam alone, of going to Hell. He never sends them, but he imagines Henriksen getting them, responding…. He can't imagine what Henriksen would say back, but in his mind's eye he can see the man's face, grave and down-turned; unhappy. Dean's not sure why Henriksen unhappy should make him feel comforted, but it does.  
  
  
  
  
The third time they talk, it's not a call but the man himself, crashing through a rotting half-door in a dilapidated stable. There's a vampire right behind him, pouncing like some kind of ratty, tattooed cat, and Dean brings his machete around and down in a single, smooth strike. The vamp's head goes rolling across dank straw and the body collapses across Henriksen's legs; blood from the severed artery spatters out in a disgusting arc. Henriksen makes a bitch-face to rival _any_ that Sam's ever made and crawls to his feet, plucking disgustedly at his drenched shirt.  
  
"For fuck's sake –"  
  
"There's six more," Dean says, and Henriksen snaps into soldier mode, eyes going narrow and pissed and crafty. It takes fifteen minutes or more to get the rest, but Sam's handy with the crossbow and the dead man's blood, and finally they're all standing over the last corpse, panting and sticky and tufted with bits of moldering straw.  
  
"It's Miller Time," Dean says, and Henriksen pulls his blood-tacky shirt away from his chest with a grimace.  
  
"It's Calgon time, first. And then I was thinkin' some Crown Royal."  
  
"Man after my own heart," Dean says, "except for the bubble bath thing."  
  
"But you knew it was bubble bath," Henriksen says, a look on his face of unholy glee.  
  
"Because I've actually dated women," Dean says, and Henriksen just gives him this _look_ , one of amusement and superiority, but underneath is this kind of heat that Dean's seen directed at him from time to time, in dark corners and back alleys; looks he's taken their makers up on, from time to time, when things weren't quite so…dire. Seeing it from Henriksen simultaneously weirds Dean out and makes his breath come a little shorter and he covers with a manly slap on the man's shoulder as they stumble out of the barn.  
  
Turns out, Henriksen is in the same motel, five rooms down, and while Sam's in the shower, Dean hits the package store across the road and knocks on Henriksen's door with two bottles and an oversize bag of beef jerky. Long after Sam's staggered off to their room, Dean and Victor sit and drink, swapping stories, comparing scars. Relaxing for the first time, it feels like to Dean, in months. The hangover, they both agree, is gonna be worth it.  
  
There's a lull in the conversation some time around two a.m., and Dean looks up from his half-loopy contemplation of the dizzying hotel carpet to that _look_ again. It stops him dead, makes his blood roar in his veins – makes him wonder just what the fuck _else_ he's been missing in their long-distance conversations and grammatically stunted texts. Wonders if he should take Henriksen up on it, or pretend he didn't see, or tell him about the deal and watch that look go the way of the dodo, dead forever more.  
  
In the end, it's not up to him – Henriksen leans across the table and fists his hand in Dean's collar, pulls him up and presses their foreheads together and then their mouths. Tang of whisky, salt and savory from the jerky, something that's just _him_ , confusion of scents and tastes all muddled in Dean's muddled head. After a moment, Henriksen thumps back into his chair and Dean does, too, breathless, and they both sit there for a long, silent minute or so, low rumble of semi-trucks from the highway, the creak and whir of the ancient heating unit filling up the silence they're both not touching.  
  
Then Henriksen holds up the bottle, eyebrow raised, and Dean nods, and they manage to kill it in half an hour. Dean thinks he might claim forgetfulness in the morning, but then again…he just might not.  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, Henriksen tells them he's put in for leave from the Bureau. Six months down-time, how's that for a happy April Fool's? When Sam leaves to go to the library – on what Dean is sure is another hunt for some way to break his deal – Henriksen tells him that Sam called a couple weeks ago. Told him about the deal. Dean…isn't happy.  
  
"He _told_ you about that?" he snaps, and Henriksen just looks at him, well-thumbed newspaper open in front of him, little notepad under his hand dense with the weird shorthand he picked up in Quantico.  
  
"Yeah, he told me. He needed somebody to talk to, especially after the shit that went down in Florida. And that somebody sure ain't you, is it?"  
  
"There's nothing to talk about," Dean says, and shoves hard away from the table; goes to the little kitchenette and pours himself a drink – fuckin' hair of the dog is prescriptive, at this point. When he turns around, there's Henriksen, glaring at him, _way_ inside his personal space, and Dean flinches back.  
  
"There's _everything_ to talk about, you fucking idiot! What, you thought you could just wind your year down, check out, and I'd...Sam'd go trippin' along, all – happy fucking singing?" Dean tries to move sideways, whiskey slopping a little over his knuckles from his too-full glass, and Henriksen slams both palms onto the counter top behind him, trapping him between his arms. "He _told_ me all about Florida, man! He went off the fuckin' rails, and you keep pretending like you dying for _real_ this time isn't gonna make a dent in the kid!"  
  
"What the fuck am I _supposed_ to do, huh?" Dean's ready to kick and punch and break free of Henriksen's proximity – of the anger that's all but vibrating through the man. "The deal's _done_. And I know he's trying – so fucking hard – to get me free of it, but he won't, man." Dean stares at Henriksen, so close he could _kiss_ touch him with no effort at all, dark brown eyes wide and furious, mustached mouth pressed into a tight, unhappy line. "He just – won't, you know? And I gotta believe…that he's gonna be okay because I can't…I can't think about –"  
  
Henriksen makes some kind of noise then – some kind of frustrated growl, animal and furious. And then he's crushing his mouth down onto Dean's mouth and his body into Dean's body and Dean drops the glass in his hand and gets two fistfuls of t-shirt and just _takes_ , greedy and desperate.  
  
When they finally come up for air, Dean's so hard it hurts, and Henriksen looks a little frantic, like he hadn't really planned that and doesn't know what to do next.  
  
"Jesus, kid – Dean – fuck, I –"  
  
"If you say you're sorry, I will fucking _end_ you," Dean rasps, and Henriksen looks terrified and relieved and tries to dive back in. Dean holds him off by sheer force of will. "Listen, fuck, just…he won't talk to me, man. He won't tell me – what happened, what he did, he just…he shuts down. He goes to the fucking _library_ some more, okay? You gotta…you gotta promise me –"  
  
"What? Promise what?" Henriksen – Victor – asks, his fingers rubbing up and down the muscles in the nape of Dean's neck, his hips doing a slow, barely-there rock against Dean's.  
  
"Look after him, okay? Just…don't let him fucking…run off and…do something stupid. Don't let that bitch Ruby get to him and don't…don't let him try to come _get_ me, okay? I'm so…I'm…so fucking…scared he's gonna –" Dean chokes on that thought – those words – and Victor drags his hand down Dean's collarbone to his heart. Thumps there with his fist, the other hand scrubbing up into Dean's hair, pulling him closer, noses just brushing.  
  
" _Christ_. I won't, fuck, I'll…knock him down and sit on him for a month if I have to, Jesus, I…. Could he do that? That's so fucking – fucked up, that's – but if we could, Dean –"  
  
" _No_ ," Dean growls, ragged word that's cracking apart, jerking away, and Victor flinches back a little, then drags Dean in again, breathing hard.  
  
"Okay. Okay, I get it, okay, just…you gotta gimme all the names you know, you gotta let me _in_ , tell me everything, gimme – all the fucking tools you got and let me…let me help, let me fucking do this, okay? I swear, Dean. I fucking swear, I won't – I'll watch out for him, okay? I will, I swear."  
  
Dean can hear the fierce promise in Victor's voice – the absolute and utter truth of what he's saying, and he's almost dizzy with the sudden lifting of some of the weight off his shoulders. He could shout, laugh – cry like a baby – but he's done all those things, in secret, away from everyone and everything, and he's not going there now. Now he just yanks Victor in close and grinds them together – fits them mouth to mouth and hip to hip and figures he's not letting go for a good long while. Victor seems to feel the same.  
  
They end up jacking each other off against the stove, messy and fast and hotter than sin, sweat and maybe some tears, there, after all, one or two, when his face is buried in Victor's shoulder and his body is arching hard and clean under Victor's hand. When Sam comes back from his library run, he gives them both a gimlet stare of confused suspicion, nostrils flaring as he takes in whatever scents linger in the recycled air.  
  
Dean – pretty much just feels like he could get up and run a hundred miles and not even feel it, and he lays out his guns and starts cleaning them, one after another, Victor's eyes on him the whole time, keeping him right there in this moment of sheer relief. He doesn't figure it'll last the whole month to come, but he'll take what he can get, and just…keep on keeping on. It's all he knows how to do.  
  
  
  
Henriksen MST3K's the entire _Ghostfacers_ pilot, so despite having to relive the fucked-up-ness of seeing Sam vanish into thin air, Dean actually has fun with it. Right up until the whole Corbett-dying, gay-love-saves-the-day exploitationpalooza. Then he feels kinda justified in leaving the magnet behind, and he can see Henriksen – Victor – smirking to himself as they drive away.  
  
He's not there to watch Dean fall apart over the calls from his Dad – not his Dad – because two towns away is an old FBI buddy, retired on disability, and he stops to catch up on some gossip and get a few under-the-radar supplies. He's there for the aftermath, though, and Dean suspects he and Sam communicate more than they let on, because Victor shows up the next day with a bag full of fried chicken, a 12-pack, and a box of condoms. Dean doesn't know if he wants to hug him or punch him.  
  
He settles for stuffing his face, getting tipsy, and getting naked. The condoms stay shut, but Dean still learns a thing or two. He also falls asleep curled back to back with a warm, pliant body for the first time in way too long, and it just feels..... Good. It feels good. It's like a knife to his gut – to his heart – that he knows this is only his for a few more weeks.  
  
It's Victor that talks Sam down from the whole Doc Benton thing. Intense one-on-one over by the ramshackle little house, Sam breathing hard and hunched over, Victor solid and calm and, for a moment, so like his Dad that Dean's heart thumps extra-hard, hurting. Over at the grave, Dean is silently freaking out over the fact that he's basically burying someone alive – a creepy, ghoulish, sorta-but-not-really-dead-undead _psycho_ , yeah, but still...alive. He wonders if that's what Hell is like and then goes off into the bushes to quietly lose the diner supper he's been happily digesting, clammy with sweat and his belly tight with shivers, the night suddenly full of menace.  
  
For one insane second he considers digging the fucker back up and doing something – anything – but this. But then Sam is sloping over, all hang-dog-shaggy and grim, and Victor is picking up a shovel and Dean spits and wipes his mouth and goes back to moving earth, ignoring the _looks_ Sam is giving him, and the pale worms twisting in the disturbed ground.  
  
  
  
Indiana is green and warm and full of sunshine and Dean wants to set it all on fire. Wants to turn around and drive as fast as his baby will go in the opposite direction. But he can't, he won't, there's _Sam_ , always Sam, still pissed about the Devil's Trap that Dean had laid for Ruby; still pissed that Dean won't _listen_ to her, to him. But Dean's had enough of demons and deals, of advice and plans and _ideas_ from creatures that look like.....  
  
Fuck, that look like rotting meat and Alien and blind, toothed worms and skulls and _blood_ , all mashed together, all – glistening and grey-green-curdled red. The thought of seeing that for the next billion years – of _becoming_ that – makes his stomach churn. Victor's in the back seat for once, instead of his own car; mouth thin-lipped and clamped tight, eyes narrow in the rear view. Wearing the bruises on his wrists that Dean gave him the night before like some kind of badge, and if Dean could muster up enough spit to talk, he'd make Sam notice. Make Sam blush like a school girl and squirm in his seat, but he can't, he just....  
  
Bobby's junker dips in and out of the curves of the road, about a half mile behind, and Dean eases off the gas and then steps down again, too nervous to go slow, to wait. He doesn't want to rush into this but fuck, he doesn't want to stretch it out, either. Unless he could just slip into some alternate universe and just be _this_ , on the road, in his car, his brother and....whatever Victor is right there, always there. Bobby on their six and the asphalt endless, moonlit and shimmering.  
  
He wishes, without wishing, because wishes aren't horses, wishes are barbed hooks and double-edged knives and trip wires invisible until you hit them. Wishes are for little girls who want a pony and little boys who just want a mom and hell, how many people has he ever met who ever had a pony? There's just....no point.  
  
  
  
It goes down pretty much like he thought it would. Victor and Sam have some kind of plan going, Dean's sure of that, but he doesn't – can't – know, and he runs and fights and runs again until they're trapped. Victor down in the basement with the survivors, trying to get them to calm down and shut up, Bobby out sniping demons with holy water, and Sam.... Sam staring at him with wide, desperate eyes and the hell hounds belling behind the flimsy living room doors, claws scoring the wood like cheese, their rank stink eddying into the room with every rumbling growl.  
  
Sam's fingers are knotted in Dean's shirt, his lashes clinging together with tears he's refusing to acknowledge. "What am I supposed to do?" he whispers, six years old again, begging.  
  
Dean crushes Sam to him for a long moment, trying not to scream, trying not to throw up. Hand on Sam's back in just the spot the knife went in, remembering with a queasy flash the hot squish of blood under his fingers, the sudden, limp weight of Sam in his arms, the glassy stare of unseeing eyes, and this time it really is that bad, it is, oh _fuck_. Remembering _why_ he's here, what it's all for, and even though he doesn't want to die, doesn't want to die at _all_ , God, _please_....  
  
"Just...keep fighting, and take care of my wheels, yeah?" He pushes Sam back – makes his brother _look_ at him, makes him hear, though the words are like sand in Dean's throat. "Remember what Dad taught you, and remember what I taught you. Hear me, Sam? Remember, don't – don't...f-forget –"  
  
"Dean, Christ –" Sam's shaking, Dean is, and his nose is running and it would be funny if it wasn't so goddamned pathetic, and then, _Ruby_. She saunters in, hell hounds at her feet like walking carrion, worms and beetles and corruption boiling across their warted hides, and Dean takes one look and shouts at Sam that it's not _her_ , it's not Ruby, it's Lilith, it's the queen bitch herself, and Sam – Sam lunges with the knife, Sam is so damn _close_ , but the hell hounds are closer and their claws are like fire, like razors.  
  
Dean sees Lilith fling her hand up, palm out, her black eyes rolling over white _lifeless eyes, like a doll's eyes, Jesus Christ, not the time for Jaws_. But his brain is incapable of anything like coherence, he's drowning in hysterical snippets of thought, in screams he can't choke back, in blood that's iron and salt and acid in his throat. White, white, everything white, and he can hear Sam and he can hear Lilith and then....  
  
And then he can hear nothing at all, nothing at all, nothing. At all.  
  
  
  
_Oh, it hurts, it hurts, how is it possible to hurt so much, why can't it, why won't it, oh, don't, oh_ **please** , _don't, don't, not that, not_ **again** , _wasps in his brain, acid in his bones, glass and fire under his skin, teeth shattered to shards and jags and chew on this, boy, chew on this, so pretty under your skin, so slick and sweet, so hot and tight and_ **secret** _under there, aren't you, isn't it, just gonna pry you right open and suck you dry, cut you wet, ever played the bones, listen, it's like music to your ears, isn't it, rib cage all tuned, let's play you, boy, can you scream a D flat, E sharp, contralto, alto, soprano,_ **there** _you go, hold that note, c'mon and say it, boy, say it, say it._  
  
No, no, no, won't, don't, can't, **no** _, no, oh_ **fuck** _, please –_  
  
_One word, one time, promise, c'mon, there's that pretty scream,_ **there** _it is, what do you say, boy, what do you say, what do you say?_  
  
_Yes, yes, yes....._  
  
  
  
Dean opens his eyes and it's dark. Black as pitch, close and hot and airless, and he jerks in startled terror when the backs of his hands touch something. Something rough – warm – his own legs, his own body; breath heaving in and out of him like a bellows.  
  
He hurts all over – aches all over, as if he's fallen a long, long way. He gropes out into darkness and finds more, finds something rough and cool and gritty, confining, and he realizes he's dressed, jeans and tee and over shirt, flat on his back, head buzzing.  
  
He feels in his pockets, his fingers so clumsy, but they bend all the right way, dry and whole, nails catching, nails _there_ , and he almost gags, remembering - shivering in pure relief. His fingers touch something warm and smooth and he tugs it out – investigates it with fingertips that seem overly sensitive – so clumsy. Lighter – it's his lighter, and he thumbs the lid open and spins the wheel, rough against his skin, a little stiff. Does it again and then a third time and it flares to life – light. He winces, the flame dazzling-bright; squints through his eyelashes for a long moment, waiting for the stab of it to fade – for the glare to dim to something he can use.  
  
And then he can see, fuzzy still, but _see_. Boards – rough and dark, scavenged boards, nailed together around him...and fuck, oh _fuck_ , it's a coffin, a coffin, it's a coffin.... Everything blurs and wavers and Dean realizes he's hyperventilating – shaking like a tree in a gale. Using up too much oxygen, fuck, he's gonna suffocate himself, and he should put out the light, close the Zippo, but _I'll be in the dark, it'll be a dream, Christ, gotta see_ he needs to see to get out. He puts his other hand up and presses his palm flat to the wood – shoves a little, but every muscle screams in protest; his bones feel like they're made of lead and the wood doesn't move at all.  
  
And then it does, a little tremble he can _feel_ , tiny little shiver. Dry earth sifts down onto his cheek – neck – and he flinches and gasps and jerks his head away, eyes fluttering. Flashing back hard to the Doc being buried alive and what if it collapses, what if the damn wood is rotten and it breaks and he's covered in dirt, smothered, lungs full of mud and his eyes caked open, _fuck_.  
  
"Hey!" he yells. Tries to yell, but his throat is dry as the dirt, his voice a sandpaper rasp, and he coughs and swallows and tries to work spit into his mouth. Tries again, dragging stale air into his lungs. " _Help_! Hey, anybody?" The wood shivers again – shakes and jumps and bends, just a little, and there's a thump. Another thump, and then a scraping sort of sound and...voices? Is he hearing voices?  
  
He dares to make a fist and hit the boards once – twice. Dares to lift a foot and _kick_ , but his boot feels like it's full of cement and all he gets is a cramp up his leg and dirt in his hair. Then another thump, closer – louder. Thump and _thump_ and scrape again and yeah, those are voices, those are fucking _voices_ , there's somebody –  
  
"Help! Help me! Fucking help!"  
  
"Dean!" It's muffled – it's weird and muffled and strained but it's _Sam_ , God, Sammy, it _is_ , and Dean twists and kicks and punches, pathetic blows that don't do much more than bring more dirt down on him but he doesn't care – can't care. The Zippo's getting hot in his grip but he's afraid to put it out, so damn afraid, what if it's a _lie_ , what if –  
  
"Dean! Hold on!"  
  
" _Victor_?"  
  
"Hold on! We've got you, we're – Jesus, gimme the pry bar, here, _ow_ , fuck –"  
  
"What the hell – Sammy? Sam, what – what are you –"  
  
"Don't talk! We're almost there!" The thuds and thumps increase – work to a frenzy – and then there's the creak of wood being torqued, the squeal of an iron nail being dragged torturously out of a board and then light stabs in, knife-bright. Dean flinches and blinks and twists away from a sudden patter of dirt, handful sifting in that suddenly becomes a sliding rush as the board buckles upward and disappears. Another one – another, ripped backwards and up and the light is so _bright_ , it's almost tangible, hazed with dust and warm, God, it's warm, it's –  
  
_Sunlight, the sun, oh God, is it? Am I out? Am I?_ Dean pushes the lighter shut against his thigh – shoves it into his pocket where it burns, little sullen ember of heat that's nothing, nothing. He's pushing himself up – reaching and clawing and jerking at the wood, dirt under his nails, splinters prickling his fingers and _Sam's hand_ – has to be, too big to be anyone else's – curling around his wrist, gritty and sweat-damp and hot, clamping down like a vise, and Dean almost laughs.  
  
The rest of the boards shatter away into the impossibly bright light and Dean is hauled upright – upwards – pulled and dragged and pulled some more until he's lying sprawled in summer-crisped grass, prickly-dry through his shirts – against his palms. He just lays there for a long moment, gasping in the clean air, the cut hay scent of the drying grass, blinking and blinking against the light, tears streaking down to his temples.  
  
"Dean? Hey, Dean – God, you okay? You okay?"  
  
Sam's face swims into view overhead, long hair stuck in dark strands to his sweaty forehead and cheeks, a smudge of dirt from cheekbone to jaw, another from under his nose up to the bridge. He looks drowned, exhausted, too thin, his eyes wide and his mouth trembling, and Dean lifts a shaking hand up to grip weakly at his shoulder.  
  
"Sam, Sammy, fuck...." His throat feels like it's sticking to itself and he coughs, a dry, painful wracking that twists his body over. Sam makes some kind of noise, distress, hurt, and there are hands at Dean's back, pushing him up, hauling him into a sitting position, an arm around his shoulder and something cold in his hand – water bottle.  
  
Dean lifts it and drinks, fast, not stopping until the last trickle washes over his tongue; lets the bottle fall and gasps for air. It feels good – better – and he rubs the back of his hand over his eyes and looks right at Victor, who's crouched there, all sweat and grit and bits of grass in his hair – smudges on the pale-olive t-shirt he's wearing. A Victor who, like Sam, looks wrecked, stretched thin and wrung out, and Dean reaches for him – sheer instinct, pure need.  
  
His hand curves around the back of Victor's neck, heat and damp, pulling him in with a little jerk, forehead to forehead and then mouth to mouth for an endless moment.  
  
"Am I out?" Dean whispers, and a tremor goes all through Victor's body. He pulls back, just a little, his fingers rubbing up from the nape of Dean's neck, kneading.  
  
"Yeah, you're out. Not gonna believe _how_ you're out, but you are, I promise, man, you're free and clear, debt paid."  
  
Dean breathes then – shaky, too shallow – blinks and sniffs and looks over at Sam, who's sprawled down on his ass like a toddler, long legs sticking straight out, rubbing at his nose with the hem of his t-shirt. There's a new, thin scar across his belly and Dean grabs his shoulder again, shaking him a little.  
  
"Sam? What did you do? How'd you get me out, what did – fuck, please don't tell me –"  
  
"No, no, fuck, Dean. I didn't do – I mean, I didn't do _that_." Sam shoves his grimy hands back through his hair, dragging it off his face and throat, fingers knotting in it for a moment. "Jesus, it was Victor's idea, really, him and Bobby, fuck, you should'a seen 'em, man." Sam stares at him for a moment and then he grins, dimple-wide, and drags Dean into a hard, fierce hug, his fingertips digging into Dean's ribs and Dean doesn't even care, just hugs him right back and wipes his own nose on Sam's shoulder.  
  
"Dude, you fucking snotted on me."  
  
"Did not," Dean says, and he tips his head back and just _breathes_ , right down to the bottom of his lungs, eyes wide on the blue, blue arch of the sky far above.  
  
There's someone standing behind them.  
  
"Holy _crap_ , who the hell is that?"  
  
Victor twitches ever so slightly, looking around, and then he laughs. Pulls Dean back to him and then _up_ , arm under Dean's shoulder, dragging him to his feet, both of them staggering a little and Sam coming up with a pop of knee cartilage, so fucking tall, how did Dean forget he was so fucking tall?  
  
"That, my man, that...is some unbelievable shit. Just some amazing fucking shit," Victor says, arm slung around Dean's waist, turning him to face this new guy.  
  
Tallish guy in a tan trench coat and suit, looking cool despite the late-summer heat. Dark hair and insane eyes and a strange lack of motion that makes Dean think of wading birds, standing frozen while they wait for the minnows to swim into their shadows.  
  
"Tell him," Victor says, and Dean looks over at Sam, bewildered. Sam just grins again and buffets Dean with his shoulder – looks over at the guy with a lift of his chin.  
  
"Yeah, go on and tell him who you are," Sam says, and Dean looks back, waiting. Heart pounding, so fucking sure.... So sure he's going to hear something awful, something _terrible_ , something fucked up and stupid and Christ, what's he gonna have to fix _now_ , what have these two fools done?  
  
The man cocks his head a little to once side, looking Dean over, and then he steps forward, dress shoes crunching on the grass, his coat fluttering out behind him a little in a sudden, warm gust of wind. Steps up just a little too close for comfort and Dean feels himself recoiling just a little.  
  
"My name is Castiel. I gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."  
  
"What the fuck is a Castiel?"  
  
The guy doesn't even blink, just _stares_ , eyebrows going up a tiny bit. "I am an angel of the Lord, Dean."  
  
Dean just stares back at him. Stares at him while Victor chuckles and then _laughs_ , whole body shaking against Dean, and Sam grins like a crazy person, shaking his head and shoving his hands into his pockets, looking at Dean through the limp mess of his hair.  
  
"An angel. Of the Lord," Dean says, and Castiel nods.  
  
"Yes. And you are the righteous man, Dean, and we have work to do."  
  
Dean drags in a lungful of warm air, smelling the grass and the dirt – smelling his own sweat, and Victor's, and that stupid cheap-ass shampoo Sam always buys, and something that might be honeysuckle, or apples, who the fuck knows. Scents clean and ripe and _right_ , and the sky is forever-blue, and his mouth is still warm from Victor's kiss, and all of this – all of this – is going to have to wait.  
  
"Right. Sure. Okay. First things first, Clarence. I need a beer, a bath, and –" he shoots a look at Victor, feeling his mouth curl up in a smirk. "Some quality sack time. Not necessarily in that order."  
  
Victor grins, and Sam makes a pained sound, and Castiel frowns a little. "I don't know what that means."  
  
"Sammy'll tell you aaaall about it," Dean says, and a blue-jay comes from nowhere, arrowing behind Castiel, wings flashing blue and black and white, swinging up and up into the sky, blue on blue until Dean can't see it anymore. Until all he can see is blue.


End file.
